Consider it dropped.
I think I've figured it out. Finally.
Of course there's the whole 'fat' thing. Whatever. We're getting older and that stuff isn't *as* important as it once was. Granted, there will always be those that find it revolting but whatever. Fine. But that's only part of it.
The other part is that I'm too much like one of the guys. They don't look at me the same as they look at girly-girls. I'm the "hey let's go to the bar and slam a few and laugh at each other and i'll elbow you and then take some random girl home with me" friend. I'm not the "hey i never realized how cute and funny and witty and smart she is" friend. I'm the buddy. The pal. And let me tell you this...I hate it.
I just filled my perscription for da 'butrin. Karen B had given me a sample to make sure it didn't make me all dizzy and weird. People at work are commenting on how "chipper" I am. My roomie said, "Yeah you have more energy". I know it doesn't take effect fully for two weeks but damn do I feel better. I feel like I've got hold of the steering wheel again and have complete control. Ahh...such a feeling. Delia emailed me last night. I'm such a dork. I made her feel bad without meaning to and now I feel even worse. UGH! Such a god damn circle.
My herb order from Richter's came yesterday. I opened the box and the most wonnnnderful smell wafted out. Mmm. I got my patchouli plant, but they were out of catnip and something else that I ordered. No big deal. So I unpack them from their nifty neato box container "no crunch" shipping apparatus and lo and behold they're in little greenhouse pots. Of course they're in greenhouse pots, Erica...they're from a frickin greenhouse. I shake my head and read through the pamphlet they included in the box. blah blah keep moist blah blah sunny window blah blah replant upon arrival. Uh oh. Problem #1. No pots. No money for said pots. No money until Monday or Tuesday of next week at the earliest. Crap. I hope they don't die, I think. I give them all a little drink of water and straighten them up and set them up next to the sunny window and call it a night.
Today on the internet I found a little tidbit of info...I can keep the little greenhouse plants in a tray that's got pebbles in the bottom. Cover the pebbles with water and bam...cool herb holder thingee. Yay. My plants won't die if I do this. They'll have a nice little happy home until mommy can buy them little individual pots. Right? Right.
I go outside and look in the garden...in the driveway...in the frickin yard...everywhere. No god damn pebbles to be found other than about 4 rocks that were too large to be considered pebbles and I think they were really just broken up concrete anyway. Fuck, I think, I'm going to have MORE DEAD PLANTS. Ugh. I can't do this. These plants will survive. Argh. Think think think, Erica...pebbles. Pebbles...where to get....AH HA! The park that's in the school admin building's yard that's behind the house. There's got to be some pebbles. I ask Dani. She says, "Yeah the whole park has LOTS of rocks...it's all rocks". Cool. I take my little tray and truck my booty back there.
YES! A rock pond...exactly what I need. Thank you, City Council or school superintendant or whoever decided to do this! I have pebbles! What the...? I look over and (this is the whole point of this long drawn out boring story) see two kids, about 6 or 8, hiding underneath the merry go round. Underneath it. The whole god damn thing is filled with little pebbles that hurt your feet if you step on them without shoes and these two smart guys are hiding under the merry go round with their little dirty faces smooshed up against rocks and their little scabby elbows smooshed up against rocks and their knobby knees smooshed up against rocks. What the fuck? I just got my pebbles and left, but I'm still shaking my head.
I'm feeling all long winded and introspective today. Watch out! There she blows!I was just reading Ben "I don't need another link" Brown's website...his old stuff...the story about some crazy Internet chic that completely lied to him and turned her stories around and just basically fucked with his head. I'm here to tell ya, kiddies...he's not alone. My story is not exactly the same, but it adds a totally different twist on the internet romance thing. I'll tell you the short version.
So I meet this guy. We go out. I fall for him...hard. Too damn hard. We move in together. He is from DEEtroit...ghetto area...I am from white bread suburbia. Mom asked me how we ever get along...I told her she didn't understand. That isn't the interesting part; that's just the background.
He'd never touched a computer until he met me. I showed him how to use ICQ, IRC, CUSeeMe...all the fun chat things. He used my room mate's computer, mostly when I wasn't home. I didn't mind cause he was getting into something I was into and it might just help him someday get a job...which, by the way, he never had...or spark an interest in computers that might get him a job. Whatever. He was chatting.
He started getting distant (heh, I say that like he was ever really *close*) and I tried to get him to tell my why. I didn't understand. I thought I was happy and going to marry this guy and here he was getting all weird and pushing me away. I couldn't get him to talk.
I called Kelly and we were talking and she said, "Erica maybe he is talking to someone online". "No no," I said, "he isn't talking to anyone. He doesn't even go online that much any more." "Oh yes he does." she said. "I see him online every day." This got me thinking. I thought about it for a total of one minute and thirty seconds and then quickly dismissed it. He wouldn't do that to me. He loved me. He wanted to marry me. I would know if he was doing something right under my nose! Ha.
This guy tells me (a couple of weeks later) that he got a job! But it's across the state in a town about three hours away. Aww, sad sad Erica. He won't leave me. No. Never.
Boy goes to his mom's house for a visit and leaves his pager on my dresser. It goes off. I look at the pager (that I was paying for, mind you) and it's a 616 area code number. Hmm, that's odd. His new job is in the 616 area code! He's not going to be back until late tonight, so I better call the number for him and tell them that he will call them back tomorrow. I call the number. A woman answers. This is the conversation as I remember it:
woman: Hello?
me: Hi, this is *boy's name*'s girlfriend. His pager just went off. Is this about the job?
woman: uhm, no, this isn't.
me: who are you?
woman: i am *woman's name*. i don't know who you are or how you got my number but you best not call here any more.
me: Uhm is there something I should know?
woman: Look, if *boy* wanted you to know about me, he would have told you. Don't call here again or I'll call the police.
*she hangs up*
Whoa. My head is reeling. Oh good god. He's moving out there to be with this woman. But who is she? How does he know her? Oh god he's just a liar! I am so stupid! How did I not see this?! So I call her back.
woman: Hello?!
me: look, woman to woman, just tell me if there's something going on. if you were in my shoes wouldn't you want to know? don't you think i have a right to know?
woman: look, bitch, don't call here no more. I told you once. my dad has powerful lawyers so you will be IN JAIL.
*click*
Fuck. Okay that didn't work. I pace. I pace for three hours. I cry my eyes out. I wonder who she is. Even if it's true...that he's lied to me...he's not going to come clean once he does get back, right? He'll just lie some more. And that's exactly what he did.
He comes home about 5 hours later and I flip out at him the second he walks in the door. What? Why? Who? When? Where? I tell him to get the fuck out and take his stuff. He calmly explains to me that he met her on the internet and that "it's not like that". I wanted so much to believe him. I didn't want this crap to be true. So I believed him. I took him for his story and believed him. I even fucking apologized.
We go out to dinner three days before he is scheduled to leave. The boy tells me that he loves me, wants to make me his wife, and says he'll be back for me in six months. He's leaving Wednesday, he says, and he'll call me as soon as he gets there.
He makes up an elaborate web of lies telling me that he found the job on monster.com. I look on monster.com. No companies listed under that name. Hmm. That's odd. He tells me that the person that runs the business has a little apartment building that he uses for people that are in training. It doesn't sit right, but that's okay, I think. Stranger things have happened in this big big world. Little did I know the best was yet to come.
He gets ready to leave. I pack him up myself. I help him get stuff together. I put some groceries into a bag so he'll have some food when he gets there. "You like this juice, hon, take it with you." We somehow end up getting into a fight; he tells me it's over. He doesn't trust me because I doubted him (!) about the woman and the pager. I doubted him, so that must mean I have a guilty conscience. I beg him to believe that I'm not the one cheating. No no no I wouldn't do that. I love you. Blah fucking blah. He is still sticking to his story, though, and I have to give him credit for that. Not once did he tell me the truth. A for effort, asshole.
He leaves. I cry. I cried for three days straight. I ponder. I dissect everything he's ever said to me...every time he was late or didn't call. I still believe him. He'll call me eventually. He will. He loves me. It just kills me to even admit that I thought that bullcrap.
I called the number two days after he left (I'd had the sense to write it down...call it gut instinct) and guess who answered her phone? You got it. Him. The Asshole Mega. I kept calling back and she'd answer and threaten me and I'd just call back. I deserved an answer. I needed an answer. I never got one.
I ended up hearing the real story, though. He did meet her from the internet...ICUii, to be exact. They'd never met in person when he left me to go move into her trailer with her and her two kids. Last I heard she has him on a really short leash and she has a bad taste in dresses. I also heard they got married. Good for them. They deserve each other, believe me. I saw pictures.
It's 8am and I've already been up for two hours. Whoa. I can't remember the last time this happened bar yesterday. I think it was high school...seven years ago.I was driving here this morning and I took Maple Road to try and avoid traffic. I stopped at a red light directly in front of the violin shop where I used to get my violin fixed. I sighed and looked at the screen door and remembered how it smelled in there...always like cherry cigars and lemon oil and wood stain. My violin always smelled like that place for a good two weeks after I brought it home. Of course, the violin is held under your chin when you play, so the smell always wafted up to my nose and tickled it as I practiced. I love that smell.
The smell made me think of playing which made me miss it. I miss playing. I miss being in front of an audience and putting my heart and soul into the music I'm playing. I even miss tuning my strings...A, D, G...then E. I remember looking at a piece of music and wondering how I was ever going to play all of those notes in front of anyone and have them sound like something halfway decent. I'd pour myself over the details, trying to play the piece as it was intended. I'd get upset, throw my bow, put my violin on my chair and walk, walk, walk. Frustration was the word I think of when I think of practicing. I wasn't the best at the violin, but I sure did try. I loved it. I loved feeling like I was a part of something noble and important in some way...important for the culture and important for the music's sake.
The French Horn, however, was another matter entirely. I didn't start playing it until I was in 9th grade. The spring of that school year I went to a solo competition and got the highest mark possible on a solo. The instrument and I were made for each other. No one ever had to tell me how to put my lips (until later when I was perfecting my craft); no one ever had to tell me how to tune it. I picked it up and pretty much started playing...instantly. Tenth grade (my first year of high school) the senior horn player wrote something in my yearbook along the lines of, "Good luck with your horn playing. You're better than I will ever be." I was shocked. I really looked up to her and her playing and did not think that I was anywhere near her horn playing ability.
I graduated high school still concentrating on and loving my horn playing. I got accepted into Central Michigan University's music education program the first time I auditioned. I was in the marching band (which is another story all together) and first chair in one of the concert bands. I threw myself into playing and learning all I could about playing the horn. I learned techniques, famous horn players names and what made them so famous, the composers that wrote the best music for horn, different ways to put my lips on the mouthpiece, different fingerings, and even a new clef. Then the year was over.
I was kicked out. And that, too, is another story entirely.
I didn't play again. I didn't care about playing again. Every time I even so much as looked at my horn I got teary...I still do. I felt guilty for throwing away talent (yes, I knew I had it) and all that time I'd spent practicing and all that money my parents had spent, but I just could not do it any more. The music was no longer in my soul. Elvis had left the building.
I still miss playing music. I yearn for that feeling of belonging to a group and the accomplishment we all felt when we finally got it right. I wonder if I will ever again feel what it's like to play for an audience. The sad fact is, I probably never will. It will only be in my head and never again in my skin. The hunger will never subside even though the music has.
"You must have a sharing, caring attitude; the desire and willingness to communicate and interact with other women like yourself for encouragement, support, and sharing ideas."
Personally, I think that since her domain name is HOPPY it makes sense for her to use FROG since it rhymes with BLOG. I think it's cute and it works.
I think I heard somewhere that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but apparently that means nothing if it's unintentional.
Still tossing around the idea of making a midwestern bloggers ring, but no one has emailed me saying it was a good idea or a bad idea...so I don't think I'm going to waste my time if there's no interest.
So I finally wrote Delia yesterday. I haven't heard back from her yet. I have a feeling deep down I'm not going to. I don't know why, I just do. This makes me sad...very very very sad. It's my fault and I'm a big dweeb and made her feel bad and stuff. Gee, I wonder why I have no friends. Sigh.
I feel so unappreciated right now.I just spent the last 5 minutes talking a customer through the ordering process. I went above and beyond what is expected of me. I told her phone numbers, web sites, names, processes, everything. She then, after I get done, says, "Huh?" as if she wasn't listening to a god damned word I was saying.
That, my friends, is Reason #2947 Why I Hate My Job.
Dear Customers,
Don't ask me to help you and then not listen to a word I say! Don't ask me for the same phone number THREE FUCKING TIMES within a five minute period. Don't ask me to do this shit for you, because I am just not going to do it. You actually have to do some work. I know you're not used to it but do it anyhow. Please read thru the emails that I send you and don't just scan them and call me back to tell me you don't understand. You don't understand because you didn't read it, jackass!
And while you're at it, show me some respect. I am a human being and not just a "phone person". I have feelings so please refrain from calling me names. I do have ears. I don't make the rules, I just follow them...JUST LIKE YOU. I am not out to make your day miserable. I do not get pleasure in telling you that you did it wrong. I do not like to get bitched at by everyone. I'm here to help you, so show me some blasted respect and get your head out of your ass. ARGH.
Love,
Your Friendly Customer Care Representative
Erica
Resident Whipping Post
But now I owe him.
I also just realized that I forgot to mail my freakin car payment that was due 10 days ago! DAMN IT!
Dang. Where's that psychiatrist's number again?
Oh boy am I ever sore.I pulled all of the weeds from the front flower bed, turned all of the soil, raked it all, and spread the seed/mulch/fertilizer stuff over the entire thing. At least it wasn't hot as hell outside.
I feel good today, despite being sore. I got up at a decent hour, went outside and played in the dirt, and now I'm MUDding. :) I think Karen B was right when she said that Mr. Butrin was 'uplifting'. It also might be the placibo effect thing...since I went and I'm doing the right thing and taking some steps forward. Now I just have to call the number she gave me so I can go see a...dun dun dun...psychiatrist. *shivvvver*
I feel bad. Zuba called me today while I was MUDding and I couldn't talk to her cause I was all worried about being lost. She just laughed, though, cause she understands that I'm weird.
I also feel bad cause I haven't written Delia in like 4 days. She wrote me this really long really good email and I haven't reponded. I guess it's because there's nothing that I can really say to it because I know she's right about everything she said in that email. I think, too, that some of the stuff she said was too intense for me at the moment I read it and I've needed a few days for that all to sink in and for me to process it adequately. I feel bad because she thinks I anti heart her and then I do this. =( I'm a bad friend. Bad bad Erica.
I really need to get out of this CD mode I am in. I listen to the same 10 CDs over and over. UGH! What is with me and music? I just get into this loop and I can't get out. It's so bad. Ugh. At least I have some variations on the Ani theme that I had going for a while there...that's all I wanted to listen to...ANI ANI ANI.
I wish wrestling was on.
Just got back from my sister's college graduation party. Everyone was there...friends, family, friends of the family. They got a keg and some really nice cakes and had some food and stuff. I sat at the picnic table talking to the growed ups about my flowers and my cat. I occasionally looked over to the table where my sisters and their friends were. It almost made me yearn to be that way again...young (not that I'm old...I'm but damn it I'm getting there), partying, having a good time, laughing, taking pictures...but there I was, sipping my caffeine free Sprite and talking about different types of manure. Before I left, the 'kids' were playing crazy music and shakin' their booties in my mom's living room. This is, obviously, several hours and 1/2 a keg later so the laughing and partying has reached a new noise level. I just hit the overload point and realize that I really had to leave. I just couldn't be there any more with all of that insaneness going on around me. I guess in a way I was jealous because I know I'll never have that in my life again. I'll never be just out of college, still living at home, looking for a real job, spending every weekend night out at the bar with my friends doing shots of Jagermeister. In a way I'm happy, too, because I realize fully that I've outgrown that. Don't get me wrong, the partying thing is great for a while and I suggest everyone does it while they can...but I'm just not into that any more.
Sometimes I wonder how I'm ever going to meet any body because I never go anywhere. Zuba says it's because we Detroit folk drive everywhere. I go to work, come home, go on the computer, watch TV, talk to Zuba or Delia on the phone, and go to sleep. Repeat 4 more times. Weekend: wake up, go on the computer, mess around the house, watch TV (maybe), computer s'more, go to the store, do laundry, pet my cat, drink tea, sleep. Sundays I go to my mom's for dinner. That's it. That's my life. BORING. Ugh. No wonder I'm depressed.
